


Coffee

by IAmTellNoOne



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmTellNoOne/pseuds/IAmTellNoOne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reconciliation is only the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee. All credit goes to the writers of that TV show. I just wanted to use two of the characters they left to the wayside for my own enjoyment.
> 
> Follow me on WordPress: stephanierhesa.wordpress.com  
> Like me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Stephanie-Rhesa/302270376473191

“Holy mother of fuck,” Scott says. Sam looks over at the slowly-moving lump of drunk human and comforter. He bites back a laugh when Scott pokes his head out from under the covers and stares across the room with bloodshot eyes.

“You alright, dude?”

Scott drops his head against his pillow as though it weighs a ton. He smacks his lips and Sam coughs to cover up his grin when Scott’s face twists in disgust. “…holy fuck, my mouth tastes like ass.”

“That’s what you get for chugging PBR like a douche,” Sam replies.

“PBR?” Scott says. “You’re shittin’ me. Was I at Chad’s? He’s the only one I know that drinks that stuff.”

“Worse,” Sam says, “we went to Briana’s house party.”

Scott’s response is a hung-over wail of embarrassment because ending up drunk at an ex-girlfriend’s house party is definitely an ego-buster.

Sam can’t hold back the laugh this time. Scott glares.

“Talk about bro fail, man,” Scott says, “Why’d we go there? Please tell me I didn’t smoke a blunt because—no, fuck you, Sam. Don’t gimme that look.”

Sam gives his roommate a guilty glance because Scott while drunk and high is a horny mess; an inhibition-less twenty year old that’s still caught up on his first love.

“You and Briana bitched each other out for like ten minutes,” Sam says, “and then I found you having wall sex two hours later. Not much I could do unless you wanted me to pull you away from her mid thrust.”

Scott doesn’t say anything.

“At least you got off?” Sam tries.

Scott descends into his fortress of blankets and doesn’t come out until Sam gets ready to leave almost an hour later.

“You owe me coffee, asshole,” Scott says as he finally sits up in bed.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he responds, “You broke the bro-code and now you’re gonna pay up with coffee. And not any of that McDonald’s shit either. I want piping hot Starbucks; black as tar and with one of those prissy stirrers.”

Sam debates whether he should tell Scott to fuck off or not, but he catches the slight furrow of his roommate’s brow and the tightness in his jaw. After living together in shitty NYU dorms for the past three years, Sam knows when Scott is really bothered by something.

Now is one of those times. It’s the first time that he thinks about how shitty of a friend he was yesterday. He could’ve dragged Scott to another house party, because it wasn’t like he didn’t know Briana’s house.

“Still want eight sugar packets?” he asks.

Scott gives him a half-hearted grin and slides himself off his bed. Sam notices when Scott stares, for a second, at the empty frame on his bedside table. Sam remembers the picture that used to be in there. It was of Scott and Briana at their high school graduation.

Scott moves along like he hadn’t hesitated for a moment. Sam feels like an asshole.

He walks out of the dorm room as Scott piteously shuffles across the floor towards the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind him and he hears, “Don’t forget my stirrer, bitch!”

***

Sam hates Starbucks. Call him a hipster if you want, but the place is crawling with pretentious douchebags and their designer jeans. New York has a Starbucks on almost every street. It’s a little ridiculous how many there are and how passionately he hates them.

He still feels like an asshole, so he sucks up his pride and walks into one right off the corner of 42nd and 6th. It’s not an overly large space. There aren’t any tables, but there is a long line and a huge counter.

Sam steps behind a lady wearing a Burberry coat and some dangerously high stilettos. He silently hopes that she commutes or works right next door because that looks like it’d suck if she had to walk further than two blocks.

He proceeds to ignore the world as he turns up his iPod volume. Bruce Springsteen is always a good choice. Sam taps his fingers to the beat against his leg as he stares around the shop.

It’s only when he sees a head of thick black curls and a familiar stance that he stops.

There’s no way in hell it can be her.

Not here and definitely not in New York City. Last he’s heard of her, she was in Los Angeles, but that was almost four years ago. Four years is a long time.

He pulls his ear buds out—the music now a distraction.

Sam stares at her back.

Four years may be a long time, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t remember the distinct slope of her shoulders (how her brown skin felt beneath his fingertips). He knows those hips intimately (and the sounds she made when he traced her inner thigh with his tongue and how she gasped when he nipped at the sensitive skin of her hip).

He knows that it’s her. There is no other woman that can stand that way and just be… _holy fuck_ , she’s turning around.  
Sam’s eyes must reflect his panic, because a random guy standing to the left of her takes his coffee and steps away with a strong side-eye in his direction.

For a long moment, Sam considers bolting, but he knows that would draw more attention to himself. He freezes as she turns all the way around and it’s definitely her.

Her face is even more beautiful than he remembers. She’s matured and grown into her curves. She is looking down at her phone, but there’s a half smile on her full lips (and Sam wants to bite it).

He can’t see her face, but he knows it’s her. There’s no way that it’s not her. He stares as she walks towards the door (which is conveniently located three patrons behind him).

Part of him prays that she’ll see him standing there, but the other part hopes that he turns invisible and she’ll walk right past him and this will never have happened.

She finishes with her phone and drops it into her coat pocket.

The way she walks and the sheer confidence she exudes is like a fucking aphrodisiac to him. But it’s the way her brown eyes skitter past him for a moment, before they flash back to him that causes his heart to pound. She stops mid-stride and her jaw drops slightly.

She recognizes him. It’s written all over her face. The shock makes her eyes widen and he finds himself falling headfirst in love with her all over again because Jesus, she’s beautiful.

“ _Sam?_ ”

“Mercedes?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee. All credit goes to the writers of that TV show. I just wanted to use two of the characters they left to the wayside for my own enjoyment.
> 
> Follow me on WordPress: stephanierhesa.wordpress.com  
> Like me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Stephanie-Rhesa/302270376473191

Sam isn't quite sure how he ended up sitting at a table in Austin’s Cafe with his high school ex-girlfriend. He knows that he said hi to her and he knows that she invited him to sit down and talk for a bit, but… _what the actual fuck?_

He had seen neither hide nor hair of Mercedes Jones since his disastrous attempt at a relationship with Brittany. Their last moment together was in the McKinley auditorium where their whole romance started and it hadn't been one of happiness.

He couldn't speak for Mercedes, but he left that room feeling like the biggest failure of them all. He’d let himself down because of his cowardice and he’d broken Mercedes’ heart because he fell (or thought he fell) for Brittany.

He’d walked away from the love of his life for a cop-out, for a safe bet (regret doesn't even begin to cover it).

Of course, he would run into the one woman he’d never gotten over today of all days.

Karma is a bitch.

“So, uh,” he says, “how have you been?”

He sounds like a moron, but he’s always been terrible at small talk. Mercedes gives him this weird look because she probably remembers that fact about him. Especially considering their first meeting definitely consisted of Sam busting out Na’vi (the secondhand embarrassment is strong, _trust_ ).

“I’ve been good,” she says, fiddling with the salt shaker on the table. “You?”

Sam stares at her from across the table and can’t quite believe that this is them—their relationship after their previous entanglements. She barely meets his eyes; focusing her attention on her hands or the table or the window…anything but him, really.

“I fucked up,” Sam says.

Mercedes tenses in her seat and she slowly shifts her gaze to him. The intensity in those brown eyes takes his breath (and courage) away.

“We’re jumping straight into this one, I see,” she responds. “You were always awful at chit chat anyway.”

“You remembered?”

“How could I forget?” she asks, “Talking has never been your strong suit.”

The statement is barbed and Sam forces himself not to flinch. She has every right to be fucking pissed at him.

She stares him down—fire burns bright behind her eyes and Sam didn’t start off wanting to right old wrongs today, but seeing her again kind of shifted his priorities.

“I deserve that,” he admits. Mercedes doesn’t move, but her whole body practically screams… _yeah, you fucking did, you asshole._ “Apologizing won’t make what happened between us any better—“

“No, but it’ll let me feel better about sitting here with you again,” she says. That hurt, but Mercedes didn’t mince words if she found it unnecessary.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I really am.”

“I know.”

The two stare at each other. Sam is the one to break the silence. “Why New York?” he asks, “I thought you were going to LA.”

“I did,” she says, “I was in LA for four years. I got a record deal, hated it, dropped it, and became a manager. I still sing and record my own music, but I don’t have the energy to deal with sexist, racist, and fat-shaming bullshit. I moved to New York in January.”

It’s almost August.

Sam watches her sip her coffee and bites back on the question he so desperately wants to ask. Mercedes seems to know what he’s thinking anyway.

“Yes, I knew you were here,” she says. “I’m building a larger client base and New York was the next logical choice. To be honest, I didn’t expect to run into you. There are thousands of people in this city. What were the odds?”

Sam got his answer, but it feels worse instead of better.

“I don’t know how to make up for what I did in the past,” he says. “I was an asshole and I don’t deserve your friendship or your forgiveness. I still want them, though.”

Mercedes is silent as she finishes her coffee, checks her platinum wrist watch and then pulls the strap of her purse over her shoulder. Sam observes quietly—his heart practically in his throat because this is it. She’s going to leave, walk out of his life forever, live in the same state as him and Sam will have to survive with the knowledge that he threw away the best thing he ever had.

“My office is on 47th and 10th,” she says and Sam sucks in a sharp breath because _what?_ “I’m still angry at you. What you did to me—to us—was shitty and I don’t know how long it will take for me to forgive you, or if I ever will.”

Sam sips his coffee so he can pretend the burning behind his eyes is a side effect of his scalding drink.

“But it’s been four—almost five years,” she continues. “We’re both adults and life’s too short to throw people to the wayside because they made a mistake.”

“Mercedes—“

“Be aware though,” she talks over him, “that if you try to walk over my trust again, I will use my stilettos to kick you in the dick. Don’t even think I’m playin.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up and he instinctively clenches his thighs at the threat. He has to fight the urge to put a hand protectively over his junk. Mercedes must see the twitch or the blush that flares across his cheeks because she lets a smirk cross her features.

And things just got bad, because he forgot what that mischievous look of hers did to him. Going half chub status in a café was not on his to-do list.

“Got it?” she asks, standing from her seat.

“Got it.”

Mercedes turns on her heel, but Sam calls her back because he has to know something.

“Would you have looked for me?” he asks, “If we hadn’t run into each other today?”

She stares at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. It’s the first time that Sam realizes that they’ve both grown and changed and he doesn’t know all of her facial expressions anymore. It’s surprising how much that pains him.

He finds that he wants to learn them all over again—if she’ll let him.

Mercedes doesn’t say anything. She simply pulls her purse in front of her and digs through until she pulls out what looks like an old yellow post-it note. It’s creased all over and when she drops it into his hand—it’s soft from overuse.

Sam unfolds the paper slowly, careful not to rip it.

**_Second floor 110 E. 37 th (Corner of 37th and Lex)_ **

A smile spreads across his face and he looks up—wanting to ask her where she got his address, but the space next to their table is empty. There’s only one other patron and a couple of employees in the café.

Mercedes is long gone.

Sam carefully folds the post-it note and he puts it into his wallet for safe keeping. He stares out of the window for lord knows how long before he’s chased out of the restaurant during the start of lunch rush.

He makes his way back to his apartment building and upstairs to his shared living space. When he opens the door, he can already hear Scott’s off-key warbling from the shower.

Sam tosses his keys on the side table and closes the door behind himself.

Scott must hear him because he yells, “Did you get my coffee, douchebag?

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twitter: @StephanieITA  
> Tumblr: iam-tellnoone.tumblr.com  
> WordPress: stephanierhesa.wordpress.com  
> Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Stephanie-Rhesa/302270376473191


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